


drinking old cheap bottles of wine

by writingpenguin



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Communication, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marriage, Post-Canon, Relationship Problems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 04:37:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11684220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingpenguin/pseuds/writingpenguin
Summary: "This is an event that will forever be marked down in figure skating history. (Another world breaking record!) This is Victor Nikiforov’s (Katsuki-Nikiforov, he reflexively corrects) final victory—his last hurrah as a competitor—and he raises his gold medal at just the right angle; his lips curve into a well-practiced smile....This is not what happiness looks like."Relationships aren't easy. Yuuri and Victor try again.





	drinking old cheap bottles of wine

**Author's Note:**

> Plot came to me after my third glass of wine because deep within me are hidden depths of angst.
> 
> The title is taken from [For the First Time](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CPEBN2dVNUY) by The Script. 
> 
> Work is unbeta-ed.

The spotlights that shine on the podium are bright and blinding. Cameras are flashing. The crowds are cheering. This is an event that will forever be marked down in figure skating history.  _ (Another world breaking record!) This  _ is Victor Nikiforov’s _ (Katsuki-Nikiforov,  _ he reflexively corrects) final victory—his last hurrah as a competitor—and he raises his gold medal at just the right angle; his lips curve into a well-practiced smile. 

One step below him, Katsuki Yuuri stands and takes in their audience with a more reserved manner. Silver glints against his chest. His smile is strained, and the faint tremor of nervous fingers waving to the public is observable to none but those whom he is closest to. 

Bouquets of flowers, plushies and handwritten cards litter the ice. These are offerings to the gods of the sport—to those who climbed to the top. To the adoring crowds, they are perfect in their grace and gratitude. Nikiforov and Katsuki perform to their expectations and rise to the occasion. 

But:

(Yuuri does not—refuses to—acknowledge Victor. He does not glance at Victor. He does not smile at Victor. The bags beneath his eyes are darker, slightly swollen.) 

This is not what happiness looks like. 

Amidst the celebratory chaos, Victor reaches out to Yuuri with a hand descending towards his shoulder, but he does not make contact. He touches smoke. Yuuri is gone. Victor looks around. The crowds are still roaring. Bronze medalist Yuri Plisetsky challenges him with a piercing glare, as if daring him to ask. 

Victor acquiesces. “Where is Yuuri?”

Plisetsky accusingly raises a brow.  _ "Who? _ ”

Victor frowns. It starts to rain; a warm summer shower falls around them, and Victor is concerned about the ice. The drops soak his hair and run down his cheeks, and  _ where is Yuuri?  _ How will he coach Yuuri in the rain? The water will make the ice slippery. 

Yuuri?

The rain falls harder, louder. The lights grow brighter. He shuts his eyes.

_ Oh.  _

Victor stares at a blank ceiling. Their room is dark, and the shadows around him shift imperceptibly with the cracks of light that bleed through the window blinds. Victor drowns in the harsh rasps of his own breathing. The sheets beside him are cold and empty. He makes a blind grab for his phone.  _ 2:43.  _

There is a wetness that trails down his face. He is crying. He wipes the tears away. 

Victor sits up against the headboard; he watches the door for a moment, willing for it to open. It doesn’t.  _ 2:52. _

He sighs, making a decision. Bare feet quietly pad across the wooden floorboards. He moves to the living room.

Yuuri.

The sounds of muffled sobs reach his ears, and Victor slowly walks around the couch, stopping to kneel beside it. He sits on his calves; he waits. 

Yuuri curls into himself even further. His forehead rests on his knees. His shoulders shake with the effort to suppress his hiccups, the painful wheezing of his lungs. Yuuri hears Victor’s approach. He does not look up. He is tired—he doesn't want to see the disappointment, the anger, the frustration. Yuuri does not want the reminder that they are falling apart. He does not want this. 

He waits.

The clock ticks. The minutes pass. The rhythm of Yuuri’s breaths even. Thunder rumbles into the night. 

It is raining outside too.  

Victor breaks first. 

“Yuuri,” he calls gently. “Please come to bed.” 

Yuuri hesitantly lifts his head, puffy eyes gazing back at him searchingly. He isn’t expecting this. He expects something akin to the end—the crowning failure of failures. “Victor?”

Victor offers him a tentative smile.

Yuuri sniffles and nods, gathering the pillows he needs to bring to their bedroom. Victor takes the blanket and follows. He fusses. As soon as Yuuri releases them, Victor arranges the pillows to the way he knows Yuuri likes them. Two on top, one off the right. Yuuri sits on his side of the bed, legs dangling off the edge. Victor settles and flickers on his bedside lamp. They need to talk. (The silence between them is deafening.)

Yuuri starts. 

“Why do we keep fighting, Victor?” His voice is hoarse from the crying  _ (from the shouting) _ and his tone is resigned. Victor’s heart aches in anguish. “I don’t—I don’t understand. What are we doing wrong?”

“I-I don’t know,” Victor answers unsurely.  _ It’s the truth, _ he swears. 

“I don’t want to be angry at you,  _ Vitya.  _ I don’t want  _ you _ to be angry at me." And that—that is Yuuri begging, imploring for him to save their marriage.

Victor pauses, shifting over the rumpled sheets. The back of his hand trails down the thin cotton of Yuuri’s shirt, tracing the ridges of his husband’s spine. Yuuri closes his eyes and shivers. It’s the first time Victor has touched him all week.   

“I know.” The lump grows heavy in his throat. “I know. I’m sorry,  _ solnyshko.” _

Yuuri releases a deep exhale. “You haven’t called me that in so long.”

Victor stills. “I haven’t?”

“No,” Yuuri chokes out.  

The quiet once again reigns over them. They move out of sync, awkward with each other in a way they haven’t been since those early months in Hasetsu. They feel too raw, too vulnerable. It hurts.

“Can I—” Victor begins softly, “Can I hold you?” 

Yuuri nods, not trusting himself to speak. Victor inches forward and wraps his arms around his husband’s waist, burying his head into the crook of Yuuri’s neck. The intimacy between them is fragile. Yuuri reaches for Victor’s hand and holds it up to the light. He thumbs the ring on Victor’s finger.  _ I missed you.  _

“Have I ever congratulated you for gold?” Yuuri asks. 

Yuuri feels eyelashes flutter against his neck as Victor considers the question. Victor reluctantly shakes his head. “No.” And he says this in barely a whisper, as if trying to take back the words that have yet to escape his lips, “You haven’t.”

Yuuri presses his cheek to his lover’s hair, nuzzling feathery silver locks. “Congratulations on your last gold, Victor. I am so proud of you.”

Victor focuses on the feel of light caresses ghosting his knuckles—of the warmth of Yuuri held tighter in his embrace. He loves Yuuri, loves him beyond the moon and the stars, loves him so much that his heart could burst. But love is not an excuse, not for this. “You didn’t want me to compete.”

Yuuri stiffens.  _ No. _ It is one of several arguments, one that they’ve had too many times. This is the beginning of a storm. He can’t handle it if it starts again. “Your knee, Vitya,” he sighs in exasperation, and he unconsciously clenches the linen underneath him. “But what’s done is done. Let it go.  _ Please." _

Victor frowns in consternation. “I can’t.” He shakes his head firmly, dislodging Yuuri’s own. The loss of comfort weighs on him. “I can’t, Yuuri. How can I still  _ trust  _ you? You went behind my back. If I hadn’t seen the forms before Yakov—”

“Yakov agreed,” Yuuri interrupts, forcibly reminding him. “And I submitted my withdrawal forms too.” 

“You could have told me.” 

Yuuri winces. The sting of betrayal remains evident in the way Victor tenses immediately afterwards, as if already preparing himself for the worse that is sure to come.

Yuuri croaks out a response, “I did.” He tries to stay calm, to not break down. “Y-You weren’t listening.” 

“You were going to throw away our last season together,” Victor accuses almost bitterly, and what is said (and left unsaid) pierces through Yuuri,  _ you lied you lied you lied, _ and  _ he’s going to leave you,  _ and  _ you deserve this, _ and Victor’s arms around him are pulling away—

His hands frantically grasp at Victor’s, locking them into place just above his stomach. “N-no, don’t.” Yuuri has gone pale; he’s trembling. (He is _desperate_. He can’t do this again. _He_ _can’t.)_ “Don’t. Don’t let go.” _Don’t leave me, Victor._

Victor is startled, and any hint of the anger that threatened to surface vanishes instantly. “Yuuri?”

“You know that’s not what I wanted,” Yuuri reasons hurriedly, his words tumbling over each other in a rush to race against Victor’s doubts. “I love skating. I love our routines. But I want  _ you _ healthy. I want you  _ safe,  _ and I would give up the ice anytime for you! I would give up everything for you, Victor.” His voice cracks. “A-and though I would have never asked this from you before—because I know this is your life, and you’ve given up so much for it—I wish you would understand.” He swallows. “I-I wish you would do the same.”  

Yuuri’s plea echoes throughout the room, reverberating through Victor’s mind, shattering his heart.  _ Oh, Yuuri. Solnyshko moyo.  _

Victor lets out a pained gasp because—“I did. I would. _I do._ ” The bells of Barcelona ring vividly in his memory, an unerring reminder of what he had almost lost. “I wasn’t—I wasn’t supposed to return to the ice, _Yuuri._ How could you think— _”_ And then Victor’s crying again, messily, but his grip on his husband is as strong as it’s ever been. His tears dampen Yuuri’s shoulder. “You asked me to come back,” he continues, but no, he isn’t letting go—he’s _never_ letting go. “I love you. _I love you.”_

These are not excuses.

These are apologies. These are vows. These are glass shards bound together by hushed promises, by the immeasurable poignancy of banquet requests, ocean confessions, and the chill of golden betrothals on the steps of holy ground.

Yuuri turns to face him. He watches Victor wearily through glassy eyes, but the regard Yuuri gives him is no less loving, if only a little more lonely _(a little more_ _sad)._ “I’m sorry too, Vitya.”

Victor folds into him, reassures him; he cradles Yuuri’s head against his chest. Victor tastes the salt in his mouth and breathes. Their story is not a tragedy. “We aren’t perfect,  _ solnyshko.” _

Yuuri’s expression softens, and he delicately brushes away the tears off Victor’s cheeks. “I know.”

“I love you,” Victor repeats. This is important.  

“I’m sorry.”  _ This  _ is important. 

“I love you,” he murmurs again, pressing tender lips to soft skin.  

“I love you.”

“Congratulations on silver.”

(This is not what happiness looks like, but:) 

Yuuri smiles, small and hopeful. 

They try again. 

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Translation notes:
> 
> * _solnyshko/solnyshko moyo_ \- little sun/my little sun
> 
> Kudos and comments are always greatly appreciated. 
> 
> Tumblr is [here](http://theaveragepenguin.tumblr.com/).


End file.
